


Making a Case

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [7]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Advice, Brothers, CIA, Crossover, FSB, Family Issues, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hospitals, SVR, Spies, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9492320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Two months after the events in Moscow, Kirill faces a new challenge - defending himself to the CIA.Takes place in late January 2010.





	

William knocked on the heavy door and waited for the occupant to grant him permission to proceed. Two seconds passed, then four, then six, but there was still no acknowledgement of his presence.

He knocked again, another three raps, louder and harder than before.

Still nothing.

He knew the door had no lock on the other side—a standard security precaution in any building owned by the CIA—so there was nothing to stop him from turning the handle and entering without consent. But unlike the arrogant pricks from Legal and Internal Affairs, who were apparently in the habit of walking in unannounced however and whenever they pleased, _he_ had manners. He wasn't about to barge into a hospital room uninvited, especially when the occupant was his younger brother.

He could think of several, simple explanations for Kirill's failure to respond. He might be sleeping, or taking a bath, or reading a magazine on the john. Nothing that warranted a sudden and unwelcome intrusion, even by a Company man who was also his identical twin.

William sighed and knocked again. "Kir, it's me," he shouted through the heavy door. "You in there?"

No response.

Three strikes, all out. Time for manners to move to the rear.

What if Kirill had fallen over, banged his head and knocked himself out? Not an unimaginable situation, given his stubborn mule of a twin insisted on walking around on his damaged leg, instead of using a wheelchair like a normal, sensible, rational person.

Then again, Kirill wasn't exactly dealing with normal, sensible, rational times.

William turned the handle and sauntered in, purposely causing a lot of noise to make his arrival known.

The room was devoid of life.

No doctor, no nurse, no physio, no orderly, no pompous Company lawyer, and most worryingly of all, no recovering, former FSB agent.

Where the fuck had his brother gone?

Between the hours of eight and six, the room wasn't locked from the outside, either, so there was nothing to stop Kirill from just walking away. But he wouldn't be able to go very far, since the building was divided into numerous wings, with guards, alarms or security access panels at all of the connecting points. Not to mention the hospital site was way out beyond the edge of town, and completely surrounded on all sides by a ten-foot-high, razor wire-topped, electronically monitored fence.

Even without the guards and the locks, and the distance to the nearest house, escaping would be a _hell_ of a challenge. Kirill had very few clothes, no outdoor shoes, no phone, no money and a range of minor medical problems that needed round-the-clock supervision. Besides, even if he could escape, where the hell would he actually _go_? He didn't know anyone in the States other than a handful of people from the CIA, and after this morning's shocking announcement, he couldn't go crawling back to the Russians, either.

Not that Kirill knew about that particular development yet. It was why William had come here today—to pass along the sombre news.

Surely his brother wasn't attempting to run, heading for an SVR safe house in the region around DC? Would he really do that now, after everything the two of them had gone through in the last couple of weeks? His gut instinct had been to trust his twin, and to believe Kirill completely when he'd promised to do exactly as he was told. Had sentiment, shock and wishful thinking clouded his ability to see the truth? Had his own flesh and blood just played him like a harp from hell?

William sincerely hoped not. If his brother was indeed attempting to flee, there would be no second chance. From either him or the CIA.

His innards churning in consternation, William scanned the room again. He relaxed as he noticed the tiny signs that Kirill wasn't a man on the run, but had simply gone for a stroll. His meds were on the bathroom shelf, and his St. Christopher's pendant—the only personal item that had made it to the US with him—was hanging from a hook on the wall. He wouldn't get far without the former, and for all that William didn't yet know his twin very well, he was pretty sure Kirill would never leave without the latter. The pendant had apparently been a sixteenth birthday present from their paternal grandmother, Maria Ivanovna Orlova. Like the watch their maternal grandparents had given to _him_ to mark his high school graduation, the pendant was a symbol of a happier and more innocent time.

William pursed his lips, tapped his foot on the spotless floor and thought about where his brother might be. Perhaps the orderlies had taken him for some medical tests. But if that was the case, why had the nurse at the security checkpoint station told him Kirill would be in his room? His twin had this wing of the building to himself, so he certainly hadn't wandered off to another patient's room for a chat and a game of cards.

Hmm.

Then he remembered how much Kirill had always hated being cooped up indoors, back when they were children living in West Berlin. He had always preferred to be outside, even during the winter months, when it was usually snowing or pouring with rain. So if William accepted the simplest explanation, his brother wasn't trying to escape, but had simply gone in search of some fresh air and some open sky.

He turned on his heels, strode out of the room, looked to the left, then to the right and quickly found the next crumb in the trail. Forty feet or so down the hall, a reinforced, security door leading into a service hall was sitting very slightly ajar.

As he approached, he saw that someone had used a book to wedge the door open, no doubt to allow them to exit and return with ease.

William's brows shot up in surprise. The door in question was normally locked, and could only be opened by swiping a card with the relevant access rights against the panel on the wall.

How in the name of Jesus Christ had his sibling managed _that_?

All of the people in the building had a Level Three security clearance, and should know their access procedures inside out. Surely one of them hadn't been so foolish as to allow a patient to slip unseen through the door behind them, or even worse, to surreptitiously steal their card?

He slipped through the door himself, pausing to kick the troublesome book away (a copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , of all things) and strode into the hallway beyond.

Thankfully, there were no doctors or nurses lying broken and bleeding on the floor.

He scanned the corridor as he walked, looking for another clue.

A few dozen steps brought him to a battered door.

He peered through the filthy glass and found himself staring into a small, neglected outdoor space, enclosed on all sides by other parts of the hospital building. Given its condition and location, he doubted it saw much use from the actual patients. It was probably where the staff members who smoked came for their 'fresh air' breaks.

And there, in at the back, was Kirill, sitting on a shitty, old, rickety bench wedged up against a windowless wall, shivering slightly in the cold and drinking from an oversized mug.

William sighed again and shook his head. For various reasons, it was really a shame their mother was dead. If she _was_ still alive, she could easily confirm his theory that Kirill had come into the world clutching a precious cup of joe.

Three weeks he'd been coming here now. Three weeks since Pamela Landy had driven him through the front gates, escorted him down the echoing halls, then watched quietly from the corner as he'd been reunited with his twin.

What a hell of a day that had been. A day of silence and guilt and anger and shock, but tears and laughter and love as well. Just thinking about the reunion now made him want to choke up all over again.

He'd returned to the hospital every day since, swinging by on the way home from work (although it wasn't exactly on his route), and on _every single one_ of those visits, Kirill's hand had been curled around that fucking mug.

A Starbucks mug, of all things. So very _Russian_. Sometimes empty, sometimes full, but like a strange appendage, always there.

Not that he really had any right to complain, given the state of his own caffeine habits.

He pushed at the door and stepped out into the barren, frigid space. The cigarette butts scattered all over the ground confirmed his suspicions about how it was normally used.

At the sound of movement, Kirill's head whipped up in surprise. He smiled, obviously pleased to see his twin, then furrowed his brows. "I was not expecting you until the usual time. Shouldn't you be at work?" he asked, making it sound almost like an accusation.

William nodded as he picked his way across to the bench. "Yeah, I should. But something came up this morning that I needed to tell you on an official Company basis. So today, you _are_ work."

Kirill grunted. "Lucky me."

"You _are_ lucky, actually, that it was me who came to see you. It was supposed to be one of Carrington's minions, but I persuaded him to let me deal with the matter instead. If one of them had turned up and found you out of your room, they'd have called out the National Guard by now."

"I am not trying to escape," said Kirill quietly. "I am simply trying to get some fresh air."

" _I_ know that. _You_ know that. But Carrington and his flunkies don't know that."

"Not my fault the man is a cretin."

William snorted. Now wasn't _that_ an excellent word? "Unfortunately, he's a cretin with the director's ear and a corner office on the sixth floor."

Another indecorous grunt. "And I thought that only happened in Russia."

"Pretty sure it's a universal constant," William advised. "Nigel has the same problem at Vauxhall Bridge."

"Nigel," Kirill repeated, frowning again. "He is your SIS friend who used to be stationed in Moscow, yes? The one who found out I was still alive?"

"That's him."

"A useful friend to have."

"Very."

"Especially if he is not a cretin."

"I wouldn't be friends with him if he was."

Kirill drained the last of his coffee, then leaned over to set his mug on the ground, wincing slightly as the movement triggered a twinge in his leg.

"How's it doing today?" William asked, gesturing at the damaged limb. The doctors had fixed it as well as they could, but it apparently wouldn't heal completely without another operation. A very expensive operation that the Company still hadn't approved.

"Not bad," Kirill replied. "But worse than yesterday. I think it is because the weather has changed," he added, jerking his chin at the sky.

There was some logic in Kirill's claim. Yesterday, the weather had been cold and crisp, the sky a perfect, cloudless shade of blue. Today, the clouds were alarmingly low, and there was a sense of dampness in the air, as if rain or snow was on the way.

"Yeah, that happens with me as well," William explained as he claimed the other end of the bench. "I busted my elbow real bad back when I was stationed in Yemen. Doesn't give me too much trouble, except my tennis game goes to shit when it rains."

Kirill snorted and rolled his eyes, then said, "But I think you did not come here today just to talk about our various aches and pains."

"No."

"So why _are_ you here?"

William slowly drew a breath, briefly unsure of how best to proceed, then found his nerve and soldiered on. This would be an extremely difficult conversation, but one they absolutely needed to have. "To tell you that Moscow Station passed along an announcement from the FSB," he calmly revealed.

"What kind of announcement?" his brother asked, sounding slightly alarmed.

"A death announcement," William continued. "Specifically, yours."

Kirill drew a long breath of his own, then slumped back against the wall. "So," he eventually murmured. "They have decided they are done with me."

William nodded, trying to provide support. "It seems that way, yes."

"When was the announcement issued?"

"Yesterday morning."

"When do they say I died?"

"Sunday night."

"And what did I supposedly die of?"

"Brain damage from the car crash."

"Well, there is an element of truth to that," Kirill said, running his fingers over the jagged scar on his head.

"Pretty sure you had it even before the crash," William murmured, keeping his face completely straight.

Kirill huffed and shot him a malevolent glare. A corner of his mouth curled up. "Are they giving me a nice funeral?" he asked.

"Quiet and basic, at a cemetery out in the northwest. Don't remember the name."

"Mitinskoye," Kirill supplied.

"That's the one. You know it?"

Kirill nodded. "Very well. It is where our grandparents and father are buried. I used to visit every year on the anniversary of papa's death. Leave some flowers and a bottle of Tovaritch on his grave."

William smiled, then sighed.

Alexander Borisovich Orlov. Born in Moscow in April 1946, died in a basement room of the Lubyanka in August 1988 from a bullet to the back of the head. The Russian father he barely remembered, and who'd walked out on him and his mother when he was only ten years old.

For all of his teens and half of his twenties, that abandonment had been a constant source of anger and pain. And for most of those years, his missing father—the man he'd loved but hated and resented so much—had actually been dead and gone.

What a ridiculous fucking waste, in more ways than one.

But this was neither the time nor the place to dwell on painful memories of the past. Today, he was here to talk about a far more immediate problem.

"Does the FSB know I am still alive?" Kirill enquired.

"We think so, yeah."

"It would not have bothered with an official death announcement if it did not."

"Probably not, no."

"Does it know I am in the United States?"

"At the moment, no," William replied, then added, "Not as far as we can tell anyway."

"But there is no guarantee it will not eventually figure it out."

"The FSB's a national security and intelligence agency, Kir. Figuring things out is what it does."

"Not that it would matter anyway," Kirill murmured, sounding bitter. "Since they have apparently decided I am not worth any further trouble."

"Yeah," was all William said.

What else could he really say? How would _he_ feel if the tables were turned, if the CIA's reaction to his own defection was to shrug and casually draw a red line through his name? He liked to think it wasn't just his ego talking, that it was also a matter of knowing your employer valued the work you did, especially when your job was as sensitive and risky as his.

"I am a low value asset," Kirill declared, apparently adding fraternal telepathy to his list of skills. "Not important enough to want me back, not dangerous enough to worry about the consequences of letting me go."

"It's not personal, Kir. You should know that."

"I do, Viko. It is simply very hard to accept. I have seen it happen numerous times to other people, but I never thought it would happen to me."

"Not like we haven't all made that particular mistake at some point or another. I know I have."

"In hindsight, I should have known this is how they would respond."

"Oh? How's that?"

"I spent two years trying to persuade the FSB to take me seriously," Kirill quietly revealed. "And almost five years before that doing the same thing with the SVR. I followed orders without question. I completed every job they ever gave me, no matter how unpleasant or dangerous it was. I _never_ complained and I _never_ made any trouble for them. And do you know what they did in return?"

It was obviously a rhetorical question, but William still shook his head.

"They treated me like something they would scrape off the bottom of their shoe. They never valued me, or the work I did for them, no matter how well I did it. Which would not be an issue, except that I always did it extremely well. I was one of the best they had, with more skills and abilities than they knew what to do with, and they treated me like a brainless, knuckle-dragging grunt."

"Any idea why?"

"I don't know for certain, but I believe it was because I had an American mother."

William nodded, remembering the problems he'd faced himself when the Marines found out he had a Russian father, which meant, even though he'd never claimed it, that he had Russian citizenship as well. At one point, they'd actually threatened to kick him out of the Corps, until an influential friend of his grandfather's friend had quietly intervened and asked the Corps to give him time to go through the official renunciation process.

"They didn't think you could be trusted."

"I wasted almost seven years of my life trying to prove them wrong, and none of it was worth a damn."

"It was for the best, though, when you think about it," William pointed out, trying to put a positive spin on the situation.

"How is that?"

"If they _had_ trusted you, would they have given you the Gretkov job?"

Kirill shook his head. "Of course not. Babysitting oligarchs and politicians is considered very demeaning work. Almost a form of punishment."

"And it was only because they handed you over to Gretkov that you ended up here."

"I suppose."

William's innards grumbled again. The situation wasn't pretty, but he'd expected a happier response than _that_. "You don't sound as if you consider being here to be a good thing."

Kirill blew out a frustrated sigh "Of course I do, Viko," he said wearily. "It is just all so… overwhelming. Put yourself in my shoes, if you can. Two months ago, I had a job and a home and a purpose. A nice car and a range of beautiful women at my beck and call. Now, I have _nothing_. I live in a hospital run by the CIA, I could put everything I own in one small plastic bag, and I don't officially exist. I can't even say 'well, at least I still have my health', because I don't even have that," he fumed, waving at his mangled limb. He sighed again, then leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

William laid a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave it a supportive squeeze. "You've got me," he murmured. "And you'll _always_ have me, no matter what happens next. You know that, right?"

Kirill smiled, swallowed thickly, then cleared his throat and calmly asked, "And what _is_ going to happen next, Viko? Now that the FSB has decided it does not need me? Does that help or hinder my current situation?"

"Well, that's actually the other reason I came to see you today."

"Why do I get the feeling you are about to tell me something bad?"

That fraternal telepathy again. "Carrington believes that if you're not worth anything to the FSB, then you're not worth anything to the CIA, either," William reluctantly explained.

"I see," was all Kirill said.

"He thinks the Company should wash its hands of you and put you on the next plane back to Moscow."

"Does he understand what that would mean?"

"Yes, he does."

"Viko, the FSB would put a bullet in me before I even got off the plane. They would not bother taking me to Lefortovo for interrogation first."

"I know that, Kir. And so does Carrington. To be honest, I think it's what he actually wants."

"Why?"

And there it was. The sixty-four-thousand dollar question. Why indeed?

In a calm and solemn tone, William said, "Because he was very good friends with Daniel Manning."

"Who the hell is Daniel Manning?"

"He was one of the men you shot in Berlin."

Kirill sat up to lean against the wall again. "Of course," he muttered.

"You see where I'm going here?"

"He wants revenge for his murdered friend."

"But he doesn't have the authority to make the decision himself. It needs approval from someone higher up."

"You said he has the director's ear."

"He does," William confirmed. "But so do a bunch of other people, and some of those other people think you could be very useful, and that we should give you a second chance."

"So what happens next?"

"The director's ordered a full internal review. He wants to hear from everyone before he makes his final decision. Including you."

Kirill's eyes widened. " _Me_?" he exclaimed.

"Yup."

"When is this review going to happen?"

"Tomorrow morning. Starts at nine o'clock."

" _Bozhe moi_ ," Kirill murmured. "Is everyone coming _here_?"

William shook his head. "It's gonna be at one of our satellite offices up in McLean. Very quiet, but very secure. You'll be taken there under guard, and brought back here when it's all done."

"Will you be there?"

This time a nod. "In case you need a translator, or a question comes up that I can answer better than you. But I've been warned on no uncertain terms that outside of those two functions, I'm to keep my mouth shut."

"Will I have a lawyer?"

"It's not a formal legal hearing as such, but yes, you will," William advised. "They want to do this completely by the book, which means giving you access to legal counsel while they question you."

"Is he any good?

William grinned. " _She_ is, yes. She went to law school with Michelle, she has full security clearance, and she doesn't trust the CIA as far as she can throw them, so she'll fight your corner as much as she can."

"Does she have a plan?"

"I think she's gonna push the nationality issue. Remind the director that the CIA can't deport someone who might actually be an American citizen."

"Will that work?"

"She's been trying to dig up the paperwork from when mom claimed American passports for us when we were kids, but it was all done through the US embassy in Berlin, so it's been pretty slow going."

"Does she have a backup plan? In case the passport search has no results?"

"Yeah, she does. She's also gonna remind the director that it's against the law to deport a non-citizen if there's reason to believe they'd face death or torture in the destination country."

"Which I would."

William nodded. He'd read all of the secret reports. He knew _exactly_ what the FSB would do to his twin, and it wouldn't be pretty. His voice took on a more serious tone. "But regardless of what the lawyer tries, your best bet is to persuade the CIA that the FSB has got it wrong. That you _do_ have value after all. If you can manage that, the deportation will be off the cards. The Company will keep you because it wants to, not because it legally has to."

"And how do I do that?"

"Three things," William started. "First of all, you need to be honest with them. And I mean completely, totally, _utterly_ honest. Do not lie to them, about a single goddamn thing. You need them to trust you, inasmuch as the CIA ever trusts anyone. If they think you're a lying, two-faced, sack of German-born, Russian shit, it won't matter what value you can bring to the table, because they won't want it."

Kirill sighed. "Honesty has never really been one of my strengths."

"Then you need to figure out how to make it one, preferably before nine o'clock tomorrow morning," William warned. He wasn't pulling his punches now. "Because if you go into that room, and tell the people in it so much as one tiny, little, white lie, and they catch you in the act, they won't bring you back here when the review's done. They'll clap you in irons, take you straight to Reagan or Dulles and dump you on the next flight to Domodedovo. You understand?"

Kirill nodded mutely.

William pushed on. "Second, you need to show remorse for what you did in Berlin. A very serious, very deep, very genuine degree of remorse. They want you to tell them that you truly and sincerely regret what you did, and that you lie awake in bed at night thinking about Daniel Manning's wife and kids."

"Does he _have_ a wife and kids?"

"No idea. I don't know the man from Adam, but that's not the point."

"I have never been very good at showing remorse, either," Kirill said. "But I will also give this some consideration."

"Good."

"Be honest and show remorse," Kirill repeated. "You said there were three things. What else?"

"You need to tell them everything you can damn well think of that makes you even _remotely_ useful to the CIA. Go into that room and turn your brain inside out. Give them everything and anything you can. What role you had in the military, what units you were assigned to, where they sent you. Who you reported to, who you worked with, what ops you led or participated in, what targets you took out. Then tell them the same information for the time you spent in the SVR and the FSB. Even if they didn't always give you the high value jobs, you must have seen or heard some useful things. Tell them _everything_ you know about Yuri Gretkov, and any of his oligarch friends who have fingers in interesting pies. Especially if those pies involve weapons or drugs, because that sometimes means they have links to terrorist groups. Do _not_ talk about Alexander Conklin or Ward Abbott or this Jason Bourne guy, whoever he is. They were all CIA, so it'll just remind the director that we fucked up, and you don't want that."

He paused for a moment, then carried on.

" _Do_ share whatever you know about Russian intelligence and counter-intelligence operations. Code words, code names, aliases, ciphers, transmission locations, safe house locations, dead drop locations and schedules, recruitment procedures, how they target and develop assets, if and where they've set up sleepers and illegals. Do you know about any vulnerabilities on our side? Have they hacked our systems or turned our people? Do we have any false flag penetrators or defectors in place or passive provocateurs? What useful contacts do you have, in either low or high places? What dirt do you have on them, what favours do they owe you? Who can be bribed and who should we leave the fuck alone?"

He was really on a roll now.

"Tell them what countries you've been posted to, what cultures and customs you're familiar with, what languages you can speak, read or write. You're fluent in a whole bunch of the languages on the Company's mission-critical list. Make that work for you, however and whenever you can. You might not like the idea of spending the next ten years translating emails from Turkish or Russian into English, but it's a much better option than being sent back to the FSB. Tell them what other skills you have. Can you throw knives or pick locks or copy signatures or crack safes? Can you ride a motorbike or drive a stick? Tell them what shoe size you are, how you take your coffee, what musical instruments you play, and whether you like to fuck with the lights on or the lights off. Even if you don't have time to describe everything in full, make sure they know there's something to describe. They can always come back for the details later."

Kirill groaned and held up his hands. "Viko, please, no more," he begged. "I get the point."

"Sorry," William sheepishly said. He'd probably gone a bit overboard, but with very good reason. "I just need you to understand how important this meeting tomorrow is. It's _literally_ the only chance you have."

"I understand," Kirill replied. "And I can provide information about many of these topics. Not all of them, though. I thought passive provocateur was an expensive lingerie brand, so I cannot tell you if you have any inside the CIA."

"That's Agent Provocateur, dummy," William griped, resisting the urge to smack his brother upside the head. "But you think you can give the director something he'll want to hear?"

"Yes, I do. In fact, I think this will actually be the easiest of the three tasks."

"Really?" 

His disbelief must have showed on his face.

Smiling slightly, Kirill said, "You would be amazed at what people in positions of power say and do in your presence when they think you are just a brainless, knuckle-dragging grunt. Plus, I have an _excellent_ memory for detail. Not quite photographic, but very close."

"Why do I suddenly get the feeling this is going to be an _extremely_ interesting meeting?" William asked wryly.

"I would advise you to choose a comfortable chair."

"I'll bring a cushion."

"Is there anything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Be honest, be remorseful, tell them everything," Kirill summarized, counting off the tasks on his fingers. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, maybe."

"You don't sound very sure."

"I was gonna say you should also try to be a bit less Russian."

Kirill snorted. "And how the fuck do I do that?"

"You just told me you think the SVR and the FSB never fully trusted you because you had an American mother."

"So?"

"So make a point of telling them that. And also remind them that you weren't even _born_ in Russia. It might not count for much, but it certainly can't do any harm. Hell, throw in our grandfather Cooper's name if you get the chance. He served in the Navy for forty years, made Rear Admiral by the time he retired. Might be worth something to the ex-military guys in the room."

"If I do all of the things you suggest, will it work?"

William blew out a sigh. "I honestly don't know. But we have to try."

"If it _does_ work, and they decide not to send me back to the FSB, what happens next?"

Trust Kirill to ask the most difficult questions.

"Unfortunately, this might only be the first hurdle. Carrington seems determined to get his pound of flesh one way or the other, so if this attempt fails, he'll probably start looking for another solution."

"Can the CIA send me to prison here?"

"The men you shot were both US nationals, so it's possible. But it would be messy as well. Too many questions about jurisdiction. Much easier to deport you to Germany, let you stand trial for the killings there instead."

"So I avoid torture and execution in Russia, but face prison in America or prison in Germany instead."

"Not necessarily."

"I killed those men, and I am guilty as charged," Kirill quietly confessed. "I cannot see how or why I should be allowed to evade a prison sentence."

So his twin _did_ know how to show remorse. Good. He just needed to do more of the same again tomorrow.

 _Much_ more.

"Kir, the one thing you learn when you work for the CIA is that _nothing_ is written in stone. Everything is negotiable."

Kirill fell silent, absorbing William's advice.

But not for long. "How long will it take the CIA to make these other decisions?" he asked next.

"No idea, but they'll probably have to bring in the lawyers, which means there'll be the usual bullshit arguments about jurisdiction and constitutional rights, so it could be as long as several months. And it depends on what else happens in the meantime. Someone tries to blow up The White House or the Hoover Building, nobody's gonna give a damn about you."

"If the review tomorrow goes against me, and they decide to ship me back to Russia, what will you do?"

William's innards did more than churn. "I don't know," he murmured. "To be honest, I'm trying not to think about it."

"It would be very cruel of them, would it not? To separate us again so soon after bringing us back together?"

"The CIA isn't in the business of being kind or cruel, Kir. It's in the business of keeping America and its citizens safe."

They both fell silent, pondering what the future would bring.

"I will need something to wear," Kirill announced, out of the blue.

"What?"

"If I am going to a meeting with some high-ranking members of the CIA, and you want me to make a good impression, I will need something to wear," Kirill explained. "Something smarter than a t-shirt and a pair of jeans," he added, plucking at his casual top.

William mentally kicked himself in the ass. He hadn't thought about that. "I'll have Michelle dig out one of my old suits tonight. There's a nice grey one that's five pounds on the neat side for me, so it should fit you just fine." He gestured at his brother's feet. "And you wear a size eleven, right? Same as me?"

Kirill nodded.

"Okay, I'll bring a nice pair of shoes as well."

More silence.

It was the younger twin who broke it again. "Viko, before you leave, there is one other thing I want to ask."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"If the review tomorrow brings the outcome we want, and the CIA decides not to send me back to Russia, where will I go?"

"What do you mean, where will you go?"

"This is a CIA facility, Viko, but it is also a hospital. Surely I cannot stay here in the long term?"

"If the review decides in your favour, they _should_ give the go-ahead for the operation you need on your leg, so you'll probably stay here until that's done."

"And after it is done? Where will I go then?" Kirill wanted to know. "If they plan to hold me in Supermax or Guantanamo Bay while they decide my fate, I think I would rather go back to Russia."

William shook his head. "They won't send you to Gitmo, Kir. Or Supermax. Standard procedure is to give you somewhere to live, a room or studio apartment in a halfway or semi-secure location. With GPS monitoring, daily check-ins and movement restrictions, of course."

"Of course."

"But I actually had a better idea."

"Oh?"

"I thought maybe you'd want to come live with us."

" _Us_?" Kirill repeated. "You mean in your house? With your wife and children?"

"Yes."

"Would the CIA allow that?"

"You'd still be subject to GPS monitoring, daily check-ins and movement restrictions. But I work for the CIA, and I have the proper security clearance, so if you need a guard dog, there's no reason why it couldn't be me."

"You trust me that much?"

"Course I do. You're my twin brother, for Christ's sake. Why the hell wouldn't I trust you?"

"Because you don't really know me. I might be your twin brother, Viko, but that is merely a matter of genetics. Before three weeks ago, we hadn't seen or spoken to each other for almost twenty-eight years. We are getting to know each other again, but for the most part, we are still total strangers. For all you know, I could be a serial killer."

" _Are_ you a serial killer?"

"Of course not," Kirill hotly replied. Then he shrugged slightly. "At least, not in the traditional sense."

"Then I'm good."

"What about your wife? Should you not obtain her permission as well?"

"Already have."

"She knows I am here?"

"Told her the same day Landy told me. Wasn't supposed to, but there was no way in hell I could keep a secret as important as that to myself."

"And she is willing to have me come live in your house?"

"Was her idea."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"I would not have expected that."

"That's my wife for you. I never expect half the shit she comes up with, either."

"But surely you don't have room for me," Kirill confidently declared. "And I doubt you want me bunking with your son, or sleeping on your living room couch."

William shook his head. "Won't be a problem. We've got a full guest suite in the basement. Bedroom, bathroom, living room. Would basically be your own mini-apartment."

"But in the _basement_?"

Shit. He'd forgotten that a basement in Europe and a basement in the United States weren't always the same thing. "It's okay, Kir, it's not a cellar," William said with a grin. "It's just a lower floor of the house. Nice and sunny, with doors that open out onto a patio area. There's a huge garden with a stream at the bottom of it. It's beautiful in the summer. And the bathroom has a jacuzzi tub. Your leg'll love that."

He didn't mention how much the damn thing had cost. When it came to bathroom renovations, his wife had _very_ expensive taste.

"You don't have to keep the space free for someone else?" Kirill asked, still not convinced.

"Michelle's parents stay with us when they're in town, but if having you with us gives us an excuse to turn them away, that's fine with me."

"You do not like your in-laws?"

"I like 'em just fine. But I like 'em even more when they're not living in my house."

For a few moments, Kirill fell silent again. "Before you set your mind to this plan, you need to understand that I am not what you would call a good person," he calmly confessed. "I have done some very bad things."

"We've all done some very bad things," William replied, thinking about the man he'd hanged just over a month ago, out at the Jackson house. He was still trying to figure out if the guy had deserved his fate, or if Cynthia had simply been doing a favour for one of her high-powered Washington friends. He was learning the hard way that blindly following your superior's orders wasn't always a good thing.

"Viko, I am not sure you understand," Kirill said earnestly. "I don't mean that I broke the speed limit or neglected to pay my federal taxes. I was a government-controlled security asset. An _assassin_. I harmed and murdered people on SVR or FSB orders." He paused to clear his throat. "And sometimes on the side for money as well."

"Did you ever harm or kill children?" William asked. He purposely made no mention of women; he already knew what the answer would be.

"No."

"Did you ever torture people?"

"No."

"Did you ever kill people just because you wanted to? Not because someone paid you to?"

"A few times, yes," Kirill confessed. "But they were all extremely bad men."

"How bad are we talking here?"

"Mostly drug dealers and pimps. One was a paedophile. He tried to molest my neighbour's eight-year-old son."

"I think I can live with that."

"How can you be so rational about this? Do you really want a highly-trained killer under the same roof as your wife and children?"

How, indeed?

Perhaps because there was already a highly-trained killer sharing a home with Michelle and the kids.

"Kir, if and when we finally get you out of this mess, remind me to take you out for a couple of beers and tell you all about the time I shot my boss."

Kirill's eyes went wide again. "You shot your boss?"

"Yup."

" _Bozhe moi_. What the fuck did he do?"

"What the fuck did _she_ do," William corrected.

"You had a _woman_ boss?" Kirill exclaimed in a disbelieving tone, as if this was an entirely inappropriate state of affairs. But then, the SVR and the FSB were both very much a man's world, with few or no women in senior positions, so in his experience, it probably was. Working with or for the opposite sex was something Kirill would have to learn how to do if he wanted to make a new life in the States.

"Yup."

"And you _shot_ her?"

"Yup."

"Does the CIA know?"

"You think I'd be sitting here with you if it did?"

"I thought you said it was best to be honest with them," Kirill indignantly pointed out.

"I said it was best for _you_ to be honest with them," William advised. "It was best for _me_ to lie through my ass and pretend I had no idea what happened."

"Did you at least feel remorseful?"

"Not in the slightest. Woman was a devious, treacherous, two-faced bitch. World's a much better and safer place without her."

"For some reason, I suddenly feel much better about myself."

"Glad I could help."

William stole a glance at his watch. "I should probably head back to the office," he said. "There's a departmental meeting at three I need to prepare for." He rose from the seat, dusted down the back of his pants, then turned to hold out a helping hand. "You should probably head back inside as well. Before someone else in this place realizes you're somewhere you're not supposed to be."

For a couple of seconds, Kirill frowned as if he was going to refuse. Then he sighed, swallowed his pride, collected the abandoned mug, grabbed the extended hand and allowed his brother to pull him up from the bench. "Will you be part of the team that comes to collect me tomorrow?" he asked as they made their way to the door.

William nodded. "The director's agreed that you can travel to the meeting location with me in my car," he explained. "But I'll have to put you in cuffs before we leave the secure part of the building, and two other agents will follow us in another vehicle to make sure we don't take an unauthorized detour on the way."

"Will they at least allow us to stop for coffee?"

William huffed and rolled his eyes.  Kirill and his goddamn coffee. "I'll have to check with the other team," was what he actually said. "They might agree to let me stop at the drive through in Fall's Church if I offer to buy for them as well."

"Consider it a tactical move. I communicate much more effectively when I have either caffeine or alcohol in my system."

William snorted. That was _definitely_ something they had in common. Or, at least, the caffeine thing was. He himself usually didn't function too well once he had more than three beers under his belt.

He held open the battered door that led them back into the building, ushering his brother through. As they strolled down the service corridor towards the next internal door, William remembered something else. "Speaking of secure areas," he said to Kirill, "how the ever-loving _fuck_ did you get this door open?"

Kirill gave him an enigmatic smile. "I am a man of many talents," was all he said.

"Jesus, Kir, please don't make me beat it out of you."

"I am not as small and powerless as I used to be," Kirill warned as he paused to retrieve the kicked-away book. "You will not find it so easy to beat me up now."

"Don't talk shit, _bratishka_ ," William said, liking how the diminutive made Kirill grin. "I punch you in that bad leg of yours, you'll go down like a hooker holding a lead balloon."

"Don't be so sure of that, _brat_. My Spetsnaz combat instructor trained me extremely well. I once managed to kill a man while I was blindfolded, hog-tied and chained to a dining room table."

"How in God's name did you manage _that_?" William wanted to know. He'd been a marine, so he'd seen some serious shit in his time, but he couldn't recall ever seeing something as crazy as what his brother had just described.

Kirill simply shrugged. "As I said, I am a man of many talents."

"Are you _seriously_ not gonna tell me how you got through this door?" William asked, waving his card in front of the panel.

As the light on the panel changed to green, Kirill admitted, "It was actually extremely simple."

"Please don't tell me you figured out a way to spoof it. Because then I'll have to write a security violation report, and the Company will move you somewhere even more secure."

Kirill shook his head. "Nothing as complicated as that."

"So how'd you do it?"

"There is a new girl on the nursing staff. Very young. Very kind. Very blonde. _Very_ pretty."

"Emma," William confirmed. "I hope like hell you didn't sweet-talk her into ignoring security protocols, because I'll _still_ have to write a security violation report, and once that's done, I'll have to fire her." And he _hated_ firing people. Especially when they were as helpful and efficient as Emma.

"Then I will say nothing more," Kirill proclaimed. "Because that is _exactly_ what I did."

William sighed, resisting the urge to follow through on his previous threat of punching his brother in the leg. He _really_ didn't need this right now. Between the fallout at work from Cynthia's death, the problems Andrew was still having at school and Kirill's sudden reappearance, he already had more than enough on his plate as it was. He pushed his obstreperous twin through the now open door. "Get your devious Russian butt back into that goddamn room," he muttered.

"Don't see what the problem is," Kirill grumbled back. "I only wanted to get some fresh air. It is not as if I asked Emma to give me her phone and all of her money then drive me into the nearest town."

"The problem is that I'm supposed to follow the goddamn rules," William crabbily pointed out. "And the rulebook says I'm supposed to report this incident to the CIA."

"Does the rulebook also say you're supposed to tell the CIA when you shoot your devious, treacherous boss in the face?" Kirill retorted.

Ooh, that was _so_ unfair. Completely true, but still unfair.

"Kir, for both our sakes, I _really_ hope that wasn't a threat," William warned in a fake-menacing tone.

"No, Viko, not at all. Just a casual observation."

"Is this how it's gonna be between us? A never-ending round of _casual observations_?"

"Either that, or we spend all day trying to punch each other in the head."

William grinned. "I quite enjoyed the head punching games, actually."

"That is only because you usually won them."

"Not _my_ fault you were such a puny runt of a child."

Kirill gave him dagger eyes. "Wait until my bad leg is healed, we will find out who is the puny one then," he said.

"Oh, so you think you can kick my ass?"

"Viko, I _know_ I can kick your ass."

"I _did_ used to be a marine, you know," William politely reminded his twin.

Kirill gave a dismissive snort. "Please. The Marine Corps is for old women and frightened children."

"And I suppose _Spetsnaz_ is where all the real men go?"

"It is good that you already acknowledge this, _brat_. Then I will not need to beat it into you every morning."

"That's a hell of a mouth you've got on you, there."

"Do you say that to your boyfriends as well?"

William sighed and shook his head. Some things never changed. They'd bickered like this as children as well—the physical and psychological sides of the coin. Shouting and threats of violence from him, derision and insults from his brother.

Although, Kirill was probably just as good at the shouting and violence, now. Given his special forces training, maybe even slightly better.

"As much as I'd love to stand here trading insults all day, I _really_ need to get back to work."

Kirill simply grinned and said, "What time should I expect you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here for eight at the latest, so no sleeping through your alarm." 

"I will be ready," Kirill promised. "Or, at least, as ready as I can be without a suit and a pair of shoes."

"Just don't be naked," William warned, making the other man snort. "As a general rule, I don't deal with nudity, violence, swearing or guns until after I've had my first cup of coffee."

He patted his brother's shoulder again, resisting the urge to pull him into a hug. There had been plenty of hugs three weeks ago, back on the day they were reintroduced, but he'd realized since then that Kirill was quite protective of his personal space. Whatever the cause of that reluctance, William had no intention of forcing the issue. His sibling would learn how to open up and tolerate physical interaction in his own time and at his own pace.

Besides, if everything went to plan tomorrow, and Kirill _did_ eventually come to live at the house, Tatiana would quickly put him to rights. Three days with a curious, talkative five-year-old shadowing his every move, and his brother wouldn't even remember what his personal space even was.

"Think about everything I said, make some notes if it'll help you organize your thoughts, and try to get a decent night's sleep," was William's parting advice. "I'll see you tomorrow, eight o'clock sharp." He started moving towards the main door.

"Viko?" Kirill called out behind him.

William turned back to his twin. "What?"

"You pass the nurse's station on the way out, yes?"

"I do, yeah."

"When you are there, could you please do a favour for me?"

"Not sure," William said, suspicious of his brother's intentions. "Depends on what the favour is."

Kirill flashed him another grin. "Could you please tell the delectable Emma that I may need her assistance to have my bath?"


End file.
